Thursday, May 21, 2009

In Need Indeed

"Did you ever think that ... maybe we talk too much? Just sitting here, every now and then, talking?"

"So ... you wanna do stuff with me? Dude, I'm not so sure."

"Not in that sense, insanely insecure prick. I mean, a little less conversation. More activity? Get out there? Do things?"

"Look, calm down. I just don't want to jeopardise our relationship. We're friends. You don't want to lose that do you?"

"No, you git. When I say do things, I don't mean do things with each other."

"That's good. Because we're friends. And that's all that it should stay as."

"Yes! Alright! That is not what I mean..."

"Good then. Just to lay it out in the open, friendship is more valuable than love. Of any kind."

"I know! Now, will you just please listen?"

"Go ahead. All yours."

"Thank you. As I was saying - "

"By 'all yours' I mean, of course, that the floor is all yours. That's all."

"Anything else? I mean, let it out. More to add? Any more metaphors to subtly drop? Corrections to make? Puns to spill?"

"None at all. You may carry on your selfless task of bringing up to date with the whirlwind that is your fine mind. Did I tell you how much I admire your parents for the fine job they've done? They don't make DNA like yours anymore."

"That being well and good. But, like always, here we go, at it again - "

"Hey hey! Watch it with the puns."

"God. Ok. I'm only saying that we're doing this again, talking and talking. We should be out there, devouring the field. Making the moves, assessing the crowd, taking a pick, hitting the button and ..."

"The girl rejected you, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Which explains the urgent expediency and expressed concern over the lackadaisical demeanour towards getting jiggy with it as often as possible?"

"Yes."

"It won't work."

"But why not? It's all a matter of trying hard enough. One can't accept defeat so soon. One must fight, struggle, maybe fail sometimes but always rise to the challenge again. Such is life. Obladi oblada. Etc."

"True. Everything you say is true. But you must account for all the variables before you consider the wisdom in trying again. For instance ... "

"What kind of variables? You mean, level of rejection? Expression of disgust or not on her face? The velocity with which she rushes to a new guy? Multiplication factor of sad joke intensity?"

"Allow me to complete the list for you. Stinson's Law of Slap Intensity. The Proportional Balance of Mockery to Ridicule. The Self-Destruct Laws. The Mujahideen Stroke. And so many more. But, you see, yours aren't these problems at all. You can come back from these ones. Bounce back, if you prefer that. Or rise from the ashes, if you like the idea of having golden feathers."

"To the point, please? What is my problem then?"

"Your problem? What do you mean?"

"You exasperate me. Since we have already traversed across the realm of discussing a conscious decision to take charge of life and carpe diem it to hell and back, to the wide grassy plains of oft-promulgated and widely discussed theorems expounded by damned you ... let us please at least finish it. Why don't I have success?"

"You tell me."

"Do I crack too many jokes? Do I need to buy a different perfume? Should I cut my hair shorter? Keep it longer? Buy her all her drinks? Flatter even more? Simply set my goals low? What do you say? Tell me, again, my friend, how I should run my life. What is wrong with me?"

"You are ugly, my friend. Yes. As simple as that. Being ugly, your choices are limited and your goals have an upper limit set infernally low. Women, who would be open to being approached, tend to run away from the sight of your Halloween pumpkin heading in their general direction. Your parents, might I say, got the brains okay. But they forget to adjust for the looks, and we are left with a remarkably hideous specimen before us.

Don't get me wrong. Maybe you weren't always like this, and that is why you find yourself unable to adjust. Maybe those warts weren't always there. Nor was the sickly green skin. Maybe your teeth weren't going every way before and your eyes held some evidence of life. Maybe your voice rose above a squeak and your manliness was more pronounced instead of actually pronounced.

It is fascinating. The astounding degree of pure ugle that you have managed by now though, makes a return to the normal impossible. You are my friend, yes. As I gaze upon your ruined countenance, I feel a tender pity, a sprinkle of sympathy, some compassion. Also, nausea."

"Oh. Okay. I see. Hmm."

"Life has played a mean trick on you, my friend. Yes, yes, sit down by all means. Take a chair. Take two. Let it sink in. Accept it. The world is a horrible place, and you are a repelling man with a face someone farmed with a tractor upon. Easy does it."

"So its not even my fault? I'm just ruined, without anything I can do about it? No luck, no lucky, no walk into sunset?"

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My Punching Bag

Be Ye An Angel?

The author of this blog was born helpless, naked and without the means to provide for himself.
He has since fought these handicaps to emerge as a nonstop chatterbox spouting unnecessary drivel on unsuspecting, polite strangers who merely indulge him in order to get away safe and sound no doubt wondering even as they go how much he can talk, just the way you must be thinking right now if this sentence ever stops. There you go.
In his spare time, he enjoys spraying water on cats and watching them jump for their lives.